


THE TELLER AND THE TOLD

by Mikkeneko



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Ace Varric, Friendship, Gen, Light Angst, Platonic Romance, discussion of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 09:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9433553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikkeneko/pseuds/Mikkeneko
Summary: Varric meets an unusual man in The Blooming Rose -- a shabby blonde man who claims to be a doctor. A friendship strikes up between the merchant prince and the fugitive mage, as celebrated author Varric Tethras does his best to get to the bottom of the story.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Reikah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reikah/gifts).



> This was intended to be a _Christmas_ gift for Reikah/fauxfires, but real life got out of hand and that didn't happen. 
> 
> fauxfires had commented in the past that there was a crying lack of Anders/Varric in the fandom, so I thought I would at least try to tackle that lack. However, I headcanon ace!Varric really hard, so their relationship ended up more platonic/romantic than anything else. 
> 
> I have no idea if the timeline here is even really possible -- this takes place after the Prologue of DA2, after the Blight and during Hawke's year of service, but before Hawke and Varric meet in the marketplace.

 

Without a doubt Varric would name The Hanged Man as his favorite place in Kirkwall. But if he had to pick a favorite place in Hightown, stuffy and overdressed as it was, he would have to say the Blooming Rose. 

Not for the obvious reasons. The sort of thing that drove most men and women to a place like the Rose -- even among his Merchant's Guild confederates, as much as they tried to cover it up and deny it -- didn't hold much interest for Varric. But the place fascinated him all the same: situated in among the rich houses and manor, but not a part of them, it was as gaudily decorated as any other Hightown salon, but with a purpose.  The atmosphere of the Blooming Rose, under the spiced perfume and languorous music, was one of purposeful work. Everything about it had been chosen, not by a whim or to satisfy arbitrary fashions, but to draw in business. Beauty with purpose -- Varric's favorite kind. 

He spent a lot of time at the Rose, when he could get away from Bartrand's company or the overbearing demands of the Guild, just watching the panoply in motion. It amazed him that the other clients didn't seem to know that they were being drawn in as actors on a stage, every bit as much as the workers, to create a performance of hedonism and pleasure every bit as elaborate and artificial as any theater hall -- and they _paid_  for the privilege! 

He'd buy drinks, and lounge around on the comfortable divans (after his first visit, the madame subtly directed him towards furniture more obviously made for people his height) and people-watch. People fascinated Varric; it was from people that all stories eventually came, after all. He listened to the music, sampled new vintages, and chatted with the working girls (and boys.) Most of the time, he spent listening. Everyone there had a story. You didn't end up working in a place like the Rose if you had a quiet, comfortable life without a few exciting bumps and turns. Everyone there had a story… even if most of them were pretty dark ones. 

Each of the whores had their own bit. It was part of the act, the routine, the fantasy play that they put on for their customers. Most of them weren't terribly complex stories, but then, most of their customers didn't have terribly complex tastes. And the most successful workers were the ones who managed to set themselves apart, to acquire a distinctive routine, to get their name out there and give people something to talk about. 

Some of the stories they came up with were elaborate, melodramatic, over-the-top constructions that bordered on the ridiculous. Like 'Reine du Canaris,' the red-headed girl whose high cheekbones (real) and Orlesian accent (fake) wove together the story of a lost heiress to a high Orlesian family -- driven to exile and hiding by the wicked House of Repose -- who now worked to save money to return to her country and re-take her title. Or 'Idunna, the Wonder of the East,' who painted her nails and lips black and pretended to exotic sorceries that, if there'd been a shred of truth behind them, would have had the Templars down on her in an instant.  

And some were simple, like Nora, the round-eyed, freckle-faced girl who claimed to be a milkmaid fresh from the countryside, skirt still artfully streaked with dust from her long walk, timid and overawed by the grand city of Kirkwall and needing a kind soul to help her on her way. (Her real name was Reese and she'd been born and bred here in Kirkwall, and had two children at home that she kept fed with this clever act.) Or Juri, the dark-eyed boy with the easily-summoned blush who reacted to every man who came through the door as though it was his first time contemplating such outrageous, scandalous acts. 

Varric learned them all, listened to their stories both true and false, and over sherry and shortbread in the long dreary winter evenings he helped many of them refine their routines. You needed a little bit of backstory, for verisimilitude; but not too much, lest you lose yourself in the narrative. 

He came and he sat, and he talked, and he ate and drank, and he tipped like a drunken dwarf (which, indeed, he was) and lounged on the couch with the painted beauties of Kirkwall draped around him -- and some nights, if one down-on-their-luck girl or another was looking especially ragged and desperate around the eyes, he'd pay for a night with them in the room upstairs.  

(They played cards.) 

News of him spread, and he soon became a favorite patron among the workers at the Rose -- thought just as fascinating to him as the ones who clustered about his table, eager for a break from the pawing hands of the other patrons, were the ones who pointedly avoided him. Maybe his lack of interest hurt their professional pride somehow; Varric wasn't sure. 

It was on one such evening, with a dismal grey day fading into an equally dismal gloom through the high windows outside, that he first saw the blond stranger. 

He was a bit out of place among the buxom ladies and dainty men of the Rose, if not least because he obviously didn't care about his appearance. No professional whore would have let such untidy speckled stubble pepper his face, nor let such bags form under his eyes, nor push his hair into such an unflattering mess. His clothes were out of place, too -- a combination of plain, dull broadcloth and the last ragged scraps of some fancier outfit wrapped on top. 

Still, maybe it was all part of the act. It certainly set him apart, and sometimes that was what you needed to make people take a second look. He was tall and broad (and skinny as a beanpole) where most of the Rose's men were short and willowy, but maybe that was part of the bit too. If there was one thing that Varric had learned in his time at the Rose, it was that there was a customer for every taste. 

Varric watched him for almost an hour, evolving theories in his head, before he gave in to his curiosity. (He'd always known curiosity would win in the end, but proper pacing was important.) Since the blond man made no move to come over to his table -- didn't even seem to notice Varric's speculative eyes on him -- Varric went to him, instead. 

"So," Varric said, plunking himself down at the man's table. "Come here often?" 

The blond man blinked, head coming up with a start as though coming out of a reverie. "Excuse me?" he said. 

Varric grinned. "Small talk," he said helpfully. "You know, silly pointless questions you already know the answer to. For instance, I already know that you only started showing up here a couple of nights ago, and you're obviously not a customer. But you don't act like one of the boys, either. So my sense of mystery is piqued, and I decided to get a closer look." 

And the closer look was worth taking. Under that mess of stubble was a fine, elegant bone structure and a strong, lean jaw. He was tall -- even for a human, if Varric was any judge -- and bony, but there was muscle on those bones and grace in his carriage. And when those eyes caught the lamplight, half-hidden among the tired wrinkles and furrowed brow, they shone with a depth that hooked you in, made you want to know more. 

The blond man let out a little laugh, more of a release of tension than any real humor. "Sorry, I'm not… really comfortable with people trying to get into my business," he said, leaning away. 

"Shame," Varric said comfortable. "Since snooping's my favorite pastime. I'm a writer, you see. Varric Tethras. Businessman, author, and occasionally, I shoot people." He stuck out a hand to shake, human-style. 

"Tethras? I've heard that name before... Not mixed up with the Chantry, at least…" That last was said half to himself.  After a moment's hesitation, he reached out and shook Varric's hand.  "Pleasure." 

Varric cocked a head towards him, raising an eyebrow. "Really? Is that a stage name or what?" he said. 

The man let out a startled laugh, and Varric actually caught a hint of a blush across the bridge of his nose. "No, no," he said, waving his hands in denial. "I'm not a worker. Or that is, I do work here, sort of, but I'm not one of the -- um, you know. I'm a doctor. Mistress Lusine asked me to come help take care of the girls, in exchange for --" 

He cut off mid-sentence, his lively expression closing down. "Well. None of your business really," he mumbled. 

"Beg to differ," Varric said affably. "I'm a storyteller. Stories _are_   my business. If you've got one to tell, then I'm all ears." He took a swig of his ale, then added, "Also, if you're not going to give me your name, then I'll have to give you one." 

The blond man shook his head. "I'd rather not. Nothing against you, I just don't really want my name floating around too widely in Hightown." 

"That's fair," Varric allowed; he would hardly be the first man to insist on an alias in the Rose, although his reasons were somewhat different from most. "Well then, Blondie, you've got yourself a deal. No real names from you, as long as the alias comes with a story attached." 

Blondie smiled. "You really are persistent, aren't you?" he said. 

Varric gave him a wide grin. "It's one of my best qualities," he said. "Aside from the looks, charm, talent, noble blood, impeccable taste in fashion, astounding chest hair…" 

It worked; Blondie was laughing. "All right, all right," he said. "You want a story, here's one for you. It's _just_   a story, mind you. Any resemblances to persons living or dead are purely coincidental. 

"Let's say there was once a charming and devilishly handsome man. And it just so happened that this charming man was also a mage. And because he was a mage, he was always being harassed by Templars. They tried to lock him up in a dreary stone tower on a big lake, but our dashing hero was too clever for that, and managed to escape no less than seven times --" 

"Seven?" Varric interrupted. "Seven's a bit much. Why not say it's three times? Three's a good, traditional number for stories." 

"Seven's a traditional number too," Blondie protested. "And besides, I think it really shows the determined spirit of our protagonist if he managed to escape not just one, not just three but _seven_   times." 

"You don't want to overdo it," Varric cautioned him. "Reality doesn't have to be believable, but stories do. Too much will knock your audience right out of the story." 

"Anyway," Blondie said with a sniff. "The handsome apostate managed to escape from the tower _a number of_   times, each time in a different clever way. On the sev -- the _last_   escape, he cleverly disguised himself as one of the Templars, and escaped in the confusion." 

"The confusion that was caused by one of the Templars finding their clothes and armor gone in the morning?" Varric guessed.

Blondie waved that aside. "No, no, the confusion caused by the Blight, of course." 

"But that just comes into the story out of nowhere. You hadn't mentioned anything about a Blight before." 

"I didn't think I needed to," Blondie said impatiently. _"Everybody_   knows about the Blight." 

"Everybody in Ferelden, sure. In the Free Marches, it's somebody else's news," Varric pointed out. "And anyway, you can't always count on your references being topical. To keep your story timeless, you have to make sure that all the background elements are established before you begin." 

"Do you want to hear the story or do you want to critique it?" Blondie demanded. 

"I can do both at once," Varric said. "I'm multi-talented that way. Come on, Blondie, I'm a professional. Turning a bland story into a real thriller is what I _do."_  

Blondie rolled his eyes. "Having escaped the Tower by clever means in the confusion naturally caused by _the darkspawn running around and eating everyone,_   our charismatic protagonist made his way north to Kirkwall." 

"How?" Varric said with interest. "There's an ocean in the way." 

"On a boat, of course. What, d'you think I -- I mean, he swam the whole way?" 

Varric shrugged. "I just thought there might be more to it than that," he said. "Boring but practical, I suppose. So when he got to Kirkwall, what did our dashing hero do next?" 

"Well," Blondie said, "of course he needed a place to stay. Now, our hero had learned from past experience that brothels are great places to lie low, since people there tend to have their own secrets." 

He paused, giving Varric a meaningful look, which the dwarf shrugged off with a smile. After a moment he continued. "So he found his way to a local house of ill-repute, let's call 'The Blossoming Lily,' where he was able to barter his talents of spirit healing in exchange for room and board without --" 

"Hold on, hold on," Varric interrupted, surprised. "Spirit healing? So you, or rather, your protagonist is a _spirit healer?"_  

"Yes," Blondie said, suddenly taking on a note of caution.

Varric shook his head. "That's the first time you said anything like that! That completely changes the whole story. Spirit healing services are worth a fortune!" 

"Well, it was supposed to be a surprise," Blondie said, beginning to relax again. "You know, a shocking twist to spice up the story." 

"But there should have been _some_   indicators earlier," Varric argued. "You know, dropping little hints, laying the groundwork. Foreshadowing. Otherwise, the twist just comes out of nowhere and the audience feels cheated." 

Blondie shrugged. "If you say so," he said. "Far be it from me to argue with a professional."

"So what then?" Varric said. "Having escaped the tower and completed his journey to Kirkwall, what did the apostate do next? What was his big goal, his purpose in coming to the City of Chains? What then?" 

"Then… nothing," Blondie said, suddenly lapsing back into reticence. "That's the story. The end." 

Varric had a feeling that wasn't quite true, but he supposed their acquaintance was still too new for him to prod for personal details. Silently, he resolved that he'd change that; but for now, it was better not to push. "Not bad, I suppose," he admitted. "I still think it sounds incomplete, though. More like the build-up to something else." 

"What, you don't think that's enough of a story by itself?" Blondie demanded. His tone sharpened. "An apostate mage in hiding, using his powers not to cause harm but to _heal_ the poor and downtrodden? Maybe it's a story that more people could stand to hear." 

"That definitely is a hell of a story," Varric agreed with a chuckle. Then he sighed. "Unfortunately, it's not one I can publish. Not in the Free Marches anyway, or anywhere else in the South." 

Blondie glared at him, and Varric put his hands up in defense. "Don't give me that look," he said. "I'm not saying _I_   wouldn't do it, but the Chantry enforces its 'public decency' laws pretty strictly. Any story that gets published with a mage character has to end with them either going back to the Circle, or ending up evil and dead. That's just the rules if you want to get published." 

"I suppose you're right," Blondie sighed, then cracked an enormous yawn. "Sorry about that. It's been a long day, for me. I really only came down to get something to eat in between emergencies." 

"Sure, let's call it a night" Varric said, easily accepting the move to end the conversation.  He was about ready to pack it in himself, not seeing anyone tonight that particularly needed him to play cards with. "See you around? I'm in here a few nights a week." 

Blondie gave him a smile and a sort of lazy salute. "Same here," he said." Maybe by next time, I'll have a better story for you."

Varric grinned. "I look forward to it," he said.

 

* * *

 

 

Over the next few weeks, Varric found himself stopping by the Rose more frequently, even though he didn't always stay for the evening. Sometimes Blondie was there, sometimes he wasn't; sometimes he was busy with his work (or so the Madame relayed to him, when Varric asked) and not at liberty to lounge around in the parlor with customers. 

Sometimes he was, and he would join Varric at his table for food, drink (though Blondie declined most offers of the latter) and conversation. He told a few more stories, mostly of the disputed seven escapes: one story told of a young mage, barely out of childhood, who saved a Bann's life from bandits that menaced him. (Any resemblance between the brave young mage and the man in front of Varric now was still purely coincidental, of course.) He still had a long way to go before he was up to professional storytelling standards, although of course Varric 'helped' to improve them wherever he could. 

When Varric stopped by the Rose that evening there was no sign of Blondie; but when he offhandedly asked, Madame Lusine directed him to a small corner near the back of the building. A few rough benches surrounded a low table in front of a fireplace; Blondie sat on one of the benches, staring morosely into the flames. The low table was completely littered with bottles, many of them rough or cloudy glass; even from the other side of the room Varric was able to recognize and wince at the quality of rotgut they must have held. 

"This was a mistake," Blondie said as Varric came in the room, half to himself. 

Varric sat down on the bench kitty-corner to the other man, where they could talk face-to-face but close enough to reach out if need be. "What was a mistake, Blondie?" he said, keeping his voice light. 

Blondie blinked and turned to face him, starting slightly as though he genuinely had not known Varric was there. After a moment's hesitation, he picked up one of the bottles and tipped it with a wry smile. "Spending money on this horse's piss, of course," he said. "It was an impulse, and a bad one. I'm broke again and I don't even feel it." 

"Honestly I'm impressed that you're still… awake," Varric said, changing the word from 'alive' at the last minute. He picked up one of the bottles, empty but for a thin film of unpleasant-looking residue along the inside, and winced slightly. "I know some of these local brewers and while their product is more handy as a vermicide than a beverage, lack of potency isn't one of their sins." 

Blondie grimaced slightly. "I've got a high tolerance," he said. "Apparently." 

"Apparently?" Varric's eyebrows rose in question. "Is there a story behind that?" 

Blondie was silent for a long moment, picking up one bottle after another and putting it down without comment. "Here's a story, if you want one," he said at last. "It's a perfect story for today specifically. 

"One year ago to the day, there was a mage who did something incredibly stupid -- much like today. There he was, on one of his many escapes from the Tower, trying to book passage north from Amaranthine like any other good citizen does, when he found himself cornered by the Templars."  
  
"So his mistake was not keeping a low profile?" Varric asked, letting himself fall easily into the storytelling rhythm. "That got him caught?"  
  
"No -- that wasn't the mistake." Blondie shook his head, and continued. "Since it was too late in the day to make it all the way back across the Bannorn, the Templars decided to bunker down in an old Warden fort along the way -- Vigil's Keep. It should have been perfectly safe, since the Blight was over -- I'm just telling you this in case you weren't aware that the Blight is over --" he added, a sardonic drawl entering his tone that made Varric chuckle. 

"But alas, things never turn out that way. The Keep was attacked and overrun by darkspawn, and the doughty Templars were overwhelmed. The captive mage looked over the melee and decided, on the balance, that he'd have a better chance defending himself against Darkspawn than against Templars, so he let things fight out to their natural conclusion."  
  
"Ah." Varric sucked in his breath, easily imagining the carnage that played out behind his eyes. "And that was his mistake, was it?"  
  
"No," he said shortly. "Once the battle was over, the mage killed the remaining darkspawn and set out. He only made it a few steps when he came face to face with the last Grey Warden of Ferelden, the Hero of Ferelden herself." Blondie's expression changed when he spoke of her, his face softening out of some of its harsh lines. "Being a lass of uncommonly generous spirit, she told the mage that he was free to go. Of course, he lost no time in hastening his way out the back door, away from the danger and terror and adventure."  
  
By this time, Varric was willing to give up guessing. "And so the mistake was..." he prompted.  
  
Blondie stared at the bottle of rotgut, eyes far away. "He went back." 

Varric listened, fascinated, as Blondie unfolded the lurid tale. He was getting better at storytelling, at pacing and performance, but no amount of flourishes could cover up the ugly, agonizing nature of the basic narrative. A fugitive, accused of a crime he did not commit but could not possibly clear his name; a famous figure from a story, the Hero of Ferelden, stepping in to play the part of noble rescuer (or simply being quick to take advantage of a lucrative opportunity, the cynical part of Varric couldn't help but think.)  
  
Blondie's voice was soft, almost reverent when he talked about his Commander; but all too soon she was gone from the narrative, vanished abruptly away by factional politics. In her place, safety was replaced by dread; the very same jailors that he had fled to the Wardens to escape crept back into the ranks. Finally, the last day of betrayal; the Templar-Wardens came on him in an isolated place, and set on him.  
  
There the story came to an abrupt stop, running down from recollection to evasion in the space of a sentence. There was still a part of this tale that Blondie's hiding, Varric thought, and it showed in the weak, anemic nature of the climax. But the aftermath was clear enough: half a dozen Wardens dead, his own brothers-in-arms, and himself fled, branded a deserter now as well as a criminal.  

Varric sat back, running his fingers absently along the handle of his mug as he thought. "I dunno Blondie, I don't think this story is going to sell," he admitted. "People like Templars, and they like Wardens. They don't like deserters and runaways." 

"I know." Blondie closed his eyes and thumped his head against his fist, elbow propped against the table. "I know." 

"But, hey…" Varric offered, unable to bear seeing his friend so maudlin. "For what it's worth, _I_ liked it." 

Blondie blinked his eyes open, looking up at Varric with a surprised, hopeful expression. "…Really?" 

"Sure," Varric said. "I thought it felt more… really real, to see something outside the usual hero's tale. To see how the hero changes when you alter the frame a bit, look at him from another perspective. Everybody thinks they're the hero of their own piece, don't they?" 

Blondie grimaced, looking away again. "Not everybody." Unconsciously he rubbed his hands over each other, as though scrubbing them under some invisible stream of water. 

Varric pursed his lips. "Well… maybe it's the ones who don't think they're the heroes who make the best ones." 

"Varric, you're being ridiculous." Blondie snorted, but at least he abandoned his hand-wringing. 

"I know! It's all part of my charm," Varric said with a wide grin, and that got the expected chuckle. "But hey, I'm glad I came tonight. I had a good time. Anytime you've got a story that needs telling, I've got an ear to listen." 

"Any story?" Blondie gave him a crooked half-smile, at once challenging at defeated. 

"Yeah," Varric said. "Any story at all."

 

* * *

 

 

The thing about working in a brothel, no matter how high-class, is that it wasn't exactly a lifetime career. The population shifted as time went by; new clients came, old workers went. The lucky ones managed to save enough money to lift themselves to a better lifestyle, find a better job. The unlucky ones… well, some of them just disappeared. Varric pried as much as his extensive contacts would let him, but Kirkwall was a big place; there were just too many crannies for people to fall into. 

Yet the show must go on. The unending performance that was the Rose's business closed around the absences like a scab, and Varric found himself back again, eating a very good dinner of poached fish and pears and scanning the crowd for familiar faces. 

He didn't know why he'd invested so much in the blond man, why he felt that little pull of disappointment every time he didn't see him in the crowd; like no matter what else the night contained, it wouldn't be as good as it could have been. They'd known each other for weeks, trading banter and drinks and stories, and he still hadn't even gotten to hear the man's real name. 

Yet there was something about Blondie that drew Varric in. He wasn't sure what it was, except that it pulled at the storyteller in him like a magnet. He'd lived so much, such a bizarre and unlikely variety of stories and yet come out still kind, still with a heart more giving and gentle than most anyone Varric knew. And he had the distinct and nagging feeling that for all the wild stories Blondie had lived so far, the best of them were still yet to come. 

Varric wanted to be there for them. To hear them, to watch front-row as they unfold, to… be part of them? He wasn't sure. He'd never wanted to be _involved_   before; for every pulse-pounding chase and dramatic duel and heartfelt family reunion and passionate lover's embrace he'd penned, he'd never wanted to _be_   them before. Better to watch from afar, to take the stories complete and shape them carefully into a more coherent whole, smooth out the jagged edges, give every turn and failure a new narrative meaning. Others act, others live, others _do._  Varric, he watches. 

And because he was watching, he noticed when Nora didn't come to work two nights in a row. On the third day, he began putting out feelers, asking subtly around her regulars, around the staff. He had someone check in at her home, only to find out to his shock that his information was out of date; she and her family had moved months ago, and he didn't have her new address. 

He was slipping, Varric thought; he ought to have all of Kirkwall in his net, but he'd slipped on this one. It was unsettling. 

That night at the Rose, Varric looked up to see Blondie come in through the door and make a beeline for the nearest seat, sinking down wearily. Varric picked up his drink, flagged down a waitress to order some food, and joined him. 

"Hey, Blondie," he greeted him, giving him a once-over as he did. The lanky man looked exhausted even this early in the evening, and his clothes were dirtied; it probably wouldn't be long before Madame Lusine showed up to subtly chivy him away from the front areas where he'd be visible to patrons. "Long day?" 

"Varric!" Blondie perked up at his appearance, sitting up and smiling. It was a funny thing; as tired and dirty as he was, that smile still made him look more handsome than half the dolled-up workers on the floor. "Good, I was hoping to see you tonight." 

"Well, if you're changing careers, I'm flattered to be the first to know," Varric quipped, and Blondie laughed. The waitress arrived with food and drinks, and the not-so-subtle hint that perhaps Messere would like a private dining room? Varric was agreeable to the suggestion, and before long the two of them were settled in a small room off the main floor, a merry fire crackling in the fireplace. 

"No, still playing doctor," Blondie said, giving a slightly crooked smile. "That was what I wanted to tell you. You mentioned last night that you were worried about Reese, so I went around this morning to check on her."

Varric blinked in surprise, leaning forward slightly. He had mentioned it in passing, yes, but not with the intention of tasking Blondie to go do anything about it; it wasn't like Blondie was one of his employees, after all. "You did? Is everything okay?" 

"Better now," Blondie said, and took half of a bread roll in one bite. "Her younger son was in a bad way -- fever, vertigo, nausea. Couldn't keep anything down, couldn't stand up without falling over. Turned out to be an ear infection, gone unattended long enough to get serious. The boy's fine now, thank the Maker. She'll be back at work tomorrow night. Thought you'd want to know first thing." 

"Ah." Varric settled down, vastly relieved -- and a little touched that Blondie had gone out of his way, apparently just because Varric had been worried. He wasn't used to people picking up on his moods or worries without him meaning them to; wasn't used to having anyone that close. But then, Blondie was a healer, which meant that noticing other people's distress and pain was a natural character trait. 

He had to chuckle at the mental image that presented itself with that thought. "You know, I can just see you in a domestic role," he said. "Cooking up chicken soup, turning down fresh warm blankets, reading bedtime stories." His voice was light, teasing, but there was a little wistfulness behind it. 

Blondie let out a short laugh. "Sounds nice, but I promise the reality of nursing sick kids involves a lot less soup and a lot more bodily fluids." 

"But bedtime stories?" Varric pressed him. "Come on, Blondie, you can't tell me you don't have a single fairy story in your repertoire?" 

Instead of answering, Blondie kept on eating, paying a single-minded attention to the food still on his plate. Varric recognized the delaying tactic for what it was and bided his time, leaning back and sipping at his wine. If he didn't introduce a new topic, Blondie wouldn't have an excuse to duck this one. 

Success, because at last Blondie sighed and set aside his plate. "Maybe one," he allowed. 

Varric suppressed the triumphant response that wanted to escape, modulating it to a mild "Well, let's hear it then." 

Blondie sat sideways on his chair, facing the fire with his hands clasped around his knees. They were bony hands -- twice as large as Varric's own but with half the meat on them, mountains of knuckles and ridges of tendon and bone pressing against the freckled skin. Varric liked them. 

"Once upon a time, there was a little boy who was stolen away from his parents by ogres," Blondie started quietly. "They took him to a huge stone castle far away from his home, alone on an island surrounded by a lake of icy water. Even in the brightest summer, the castle was always cold, and ogres guarded it day and night. 

"The hallways in the castle were a hundred feet tall, and the only windows were at the very top. Through them the little boy could hear the song of birds and smell the fresh air, and he knew they were the only way out. He knew that sooner or later, the ogres would eat him, and his only chance was to escape and make his way back home. 

"For years the boy wandered the halls of the ogres' castle, looking for a way out. One day while searching through the castle, he met a brown fox who was being attacked by bandits. After the boy helped him, the fox gave him a magic pendant to wear against his breast. 'So long as you wear this pendant, boy,' the fox told him, 'you will always have luck.' " 

Varric recognized both the bandit encounter and the fox pendant from Blondie's previous tale of his first escape. If he'd harbored any doubt that this story -- like the rest of them -- were autobiographical, this put an end to those doubts. 

"The boy thanked the fox, but the luck was not enough. Still he could not find a way out of the ogres' lair. Years passed, and the boy grew older, but still he could not find an escape. One day, while searching through the castle, he met a friendly silver-furred cat who was being attacked by demons. After the boy helped him, the cat gave him a magic ring to wear on his finger. 'So long as you wear this ring, young man,' the cat told him, 'you will always have strength.' 

"The boy thanked the cat, but the power was not enough. Still he could not escape from the ogres' lair. Yet more years passed, as the young man played hide-and-seek with the ogres who were now seeking every day to seize him and eat him. One day, while running through the castle, he met a grey halla who was being attacked by darkspawn. After the young man helped her, the halla gave him a magic scarf to wear around his neck. 'So long as you wear this scarf, Warden,' the grey halla told him, 'you will always have protection.' " 

The grey halla was probably the Warden Commander from the previous stories; Blondie's face still softened in the same way as when he'd spoken of her before. Varric had no idea about the silver-haired cat or the ring, though; if there was a story behind that one, it was one that Blondie hadn't yet shared. 

"The young man thanked the halla, but the protection was not enough. The ogres hunted him constantly now, and the young man was running out of places to run to, places to hide. 

"Then a voice spoke from the window far overhead. 'Mortal, why do you run?' it asked him, and the young man looked up to see a raven looking down at him. 

" 'Because I am afraid,' the young man replied, 'because the ogres that chase me will kill me if they catch me, and I am running out of places to go.' 

"The raven cawed in laughter. 'Foolish mortal,' it said. 'If you abandoned that wingless form, you could fly as we do, and no prison would ever be able to hold you again.' 

"Once he heard those words, the man realized that the raven was right: he had magic enough to make himself safe from the ogres forever. He had only been afraid to use it, because he was afraid of the transformation. But the ogres were close behind him now, and there was no more time. Closing his eyes, the man called on his magic, and transformed himself into a bird. 

"With his new wings, the bird took flight -- but the pendant, the ring, and the scarf all fell to the floor behind him, shed along with his old body and self in the moment of transformation. But the bird who had once been a man did not care. He flew up to the top of the wall and escaped through the window, leaving the castle behind forever. 

"He flew, and flew, and as he flew he forgot that he had ever been anything other than a bird, that he had ever been a man. He forgot the home he had once wished to return to, and forgot all the ones who had helped him along the way. He was free, but in his freedom he had forsaken everything: all his oaths, all his loyalty, all his friendship, and all his love." 

Blondie ran down, and for the first time he could remember, Varric had no comment at all. He was speechless; he literally could not think of a single thing to say. 

He had the feeling, again, that there were parts of the story he wasn't getting -- but the parts he did understand, or thought he could guess, were disquieting enough. He wasn't a mage, or a Warden, but that business at the end about transformation -- 

Driven by desperation, backed into a corner from which there was no escape, forgetting, loosing all ties and obligations and losing _himself --_   that sounded an awful lot like suicide to Varric. 

He cleared his throat, the rough noise echoing in the too-quiet room like a shot from Bianca. Then had to clear his throat again, because his throat was still too stuck to get the words out. "You okay, Blondie?" he said when he could speak again at last. 

Blondie still didn't look at him, gaze fixed on the fire. "No," he said, so quietly that Varric could barely hear him. "Not really." 

And once again Varric had no idea how to respond to that. No idea what to do, and that terrified him. "Is there anything -- anything I can do?" he tried. "You're my friend, you know, you can ask me for whatever you need. You need some money, to get back on your feet? A place to stay, one that isn't in a brothel? Just say the word." 

Blondie took a deep, silent breath -- Varric saw his shoulders rise -- and then sighed. "What I need, no one can give me," he said, and he raised his head enough to give Varric an apologetic smile. "Not even you, for all your kindness." 

That smile hurt to look at; the eyes were dark in the firelight, without hope, but the smile was still trying to put a good face on it. Still trying to say sorry. 

"I dunno about that, Blondie," Varric tried one more time. "I can give an awful lot." 

His smile didn't change, but his eyes softened; for a moment, he looked at Varric the same way he'd looked when he talked about the Warden Commander. "Yes, Varric. You can," he said. "You do." 

No matter how hard he tried, that was all Varric was able to get out of him for the rest of the evening. In the end Varric had to leave to get to bed, although he ordered more food and drink for Blondie before he went, all on his tab, and managed to persuade him to take a sovereign, just for 'emergencies.' 

As he made his way home that night, through the barren indifferent Hightown townhouse that he shared with Bartrand, Varric wondered what else he could have done. If there was something more he could have done. He considered himself a nice guy, easy to get along with, and generous -- to his friends. But at the end of the day, he didn't know how to help in ways that didn't involve money, or using money to hire people to do things for him. 

He didn't know how to get close to people, didn't know how to get involved. Even when he tried -- even when he had someone he liked enough to try -- he couldn't close that distance, couldn't bring himself to make a connection. He was always on the other side of a glass window, watching others laugh and live and love, but he himself would always be an observer. The storyteller, never the story told. 

Even if, just once, he'd like to change how the story ended. Write in a happy ending or two. But it was bad form for the author to insert themselves into the narrative; sure to turn off the audience, sure the break the flow.

 

* * *

 

 

When he went back to the Rose the next evening, Blondie was nowhere to be seen. Nor the next night, nor the next. Neither Madame Lusine nor any of the other workers -- not even Reese -- knew where he had gone.

He was gone.

 

* * *

 

 

  
~end.


End file.
